The girl came shuffling along with a look of mingled stupidity and
terror on her face. It was scarcely the same one that had bent over the
fevered child.
"This girl called you in the night. What did she want you for? Now tell
me at once," he said, in a stern voice.
Meg looked all round her in a blank, stupid sort of way, letting her
eyes travel over Elsie's face in their wandering.
"What did she say?" the man asked, sharply.
Elsie was in dreadful fear. She had not dared to look at Meg, and let
her know that she had said nothing that could harm her.
And so she waited, with a rapidly-beating heart.
"She called me to pick up the boy. He'd fallen on the floor, and he was
wandering in his head like. She asked me who'd look after him, and I
said he'd have to go to a hospital--leastways, that was where they took
me when I was bad. She asked me a lot o' questions, she did: what sort
of a place this was, and where her mother had gone. I did say there was
lodgers in the house," she said, beginning to whimper like a terrified
child.
"Stop that, you dolt!" the man cried. "Her mother'll be round presently,
and you'd better not let her know you've been interfering. You were told
to keep the door locked until the morning, and yet you walk in in the
night."
"She made such a noise banging and kicking, I thought she'd wake up the
other people," Meg said, casting a scowling glance at Elsie, which Elsie
quite believed was put on to deceive her master, just in the same way as
Meg had, she supposed, put on an appearance of terror, under which she
had hidden all that was really important most cleverly.
Meg was then allowed to make good her retreat, and Elsie was taken by
the man into a little room, where a tin coffee-pot and a loaf and butter
were put ready.
She was glad to eat heartily, for she was famishing with hunger. She
devoured as hastily as she could several thick slices of
bread-and-butter, and then asked what she had better take to Duncan,
since no one seemed to be troubling their heads about him.
"A drop of hot coffee," the man said, unconcernedly. "If he can't eat
bread-and-butter he don't want anything."
"He didn't have a bit scarcely all yesterday, and he'd had next to
nothing for three days before that," Elsie said indignantly. "Perhaps
he'd eat some bread and milk if I could get it for him. I'd soon do it
if I might go in the kitchen."
At this moment a customer began to rap on the counter, and the master of
the shop hastily jumped up and went away. Elsie stood waiting
impatiently, but as he did not return, she took up the milk-jug, and
emptied its contents, about a table-spoonful of bluey-white milk, into
the cup she had used.
Duncan was still lying motionless, with closed eyes, when she re-entered
the attic. He took no notice when she spoke, so she lifted his head up,
and put the cup to his lips. With great difficulty she succeeded in
making him swallow a few drops at a time. The raging thirst that had
consumed him in the night had passed away. He had got beyond that. While
she was still holding his head on her arm, the door opened, and Mrs.
Donaldson, as she had told Elsie to call her, put her head inside.
"They tell me Donald is very ill this morning," she said, in her
sweetest tones. "Poor little fellow! what is the matter with him?"
"Meg says it's the fever, like she had when she was little," Elsie
answered.
"Fever!" Mrs. Donaldson echoed in alarm. "Tell me quickly, is he red all
over?"
"Oh no! he's quite white, except just a patch on his cheeks," Elsie
replied.
"How dare that stupid idiot frighten me like that?" Mrs. Donaldson
cried, angrily. "He's got no fever, only a feverish cold through being
out on that moor too long."
"He was wet through, and had to sleep in his wet things. He hadn't
anything dry except that canvas jacket Mrs. Ferguson gave him," Elsie
cried, remorsefully. "I was wet too, but my things seemed to dry
quicker. Do you think that's what made him ill?"
"Of course it is," Mrs. Donaldson replied. "And there's no one here to
see to him, poor child! He wants a good hot bath, and wrapping up in
blankets, but we can't get it here, nor at an hotel."
"Meg says they'd take care of him at the hospital," Elsie eagerly
interposed. "Please let us go there."
"You can't go," Mrs. Donaldson began; but Elsie interrupted her. "I must
go," she said, promptly. "I can't leave Duncan. I wouldn't do that for
anybody. It's through me that he's ill, and I won't go away from him."
"Then you wouldn't like to come to London with me?" Mrs. Donaldson said,
in her most fascinating manner.
"Not without Donald, thank you, ma'am," Elsie replied at once.
"I thought you wanted to find your father," Mrs. Donaldson said, kindly;
"and Donald should come as soon as he is well. For the matter of that, I
would come myself, or send Uncle William to fetch him."
"I couldn't go without him," Elsie doggedly persisted.
Then Mrs. Donaldson grew impatient; her voice was no longer sweet and
persuasive. "I will do nothing more for you," she said, angrily. "You
can give me back the things I brought you, and I will leave you to die
of hunger and cold, as you would have done before this but for me. Get
that child's things on, and you shall go at once to the hospital, and
see what they will do for you."
Elsie did not mind at all about the ungraciousness of the consent, so
long as she had won her purpose.
The prospect of getting to London even was nothing in comparison to the
hope of seeing Duncan nursed and tended back to health. She would
cheerfully have given up the frock and hat that had so pleased her; but
this, it seemed, was only a threat, for Mrs. Donaldson said no more
about it, but went away, and sent Meg to help put on Duncan's things.
"He ain't fit to be dressed, and that's the truth," Meg said
compassionately, as she used her utmost exertions to put the poor
child's clothes on without hurting him. "They'd better have rolled him
in a shawl."
"He'll be all right when we get there," Elsie said, with a sigh of
relief. "I hope it won't be far. Do you think they're sure to cure him,
Meg?"
"If it's to be done, they'll do it," Meg returned, confidently.
At last the poor little fellow was dressed, and Meg, taking him up in
her strong arms, carried him downstairs, Elsie following. They found
Mrs. Donaldson talking rapidly to the man in the shop. Both stopped
short when Meg and Elsie entered, and Mrs. Donaldson beckoned Meg to
follow her into the room behind, where she talked for some minutes in
low tones to the girl, who presently propped Duncan up in a chair, and
called Elsie to hold him there while she went and fetched her hat and
tidied herself up.
Soon after a fly drove up to the door, into which, by Mrs. Donaldson's
directions, Meg carried Duncan, Mrs. Donaldson and Elsie following. The
next minute they drove off, but slowly, on Duncan's account.
As they went along Mrs. Donaldson gave Meg many directions. "You must
say the child is homeless," she said kindly, "and wait till you have
heard what the doctor says. I dare not take him in myself; I cannot
spare the time. If they will not let Effie stay, take her back with you,
and let her go every day to see him. Be sure to tell Andrew to write and
let me know how he gets on."
All these things Meg promised, and Elsie began to think that, after all,
she had thought too badly of the "fairy mother." Perhaps Meg had herself
made up the tale she had told about Lucy Murdoch, and was not to be
trusted. When once they were in the hospital, Elsie had made up her mind
that she would tell the people there the whole truth, and beg them to
write to Mrs. MacDougall. Perhaps she would come to Edinburgh and fetch
them home. That would be the end of all their troubles. How glad she
would be to come to the end of them, even though it meant going back to
the old quiet hum-drum life. After all, Duncan had been really the wiser
when he wanted her to write to their father instead of going to find
him. She wished now she had done it.
While she was thinking of all this the carriage stopped in a busy
street. "Effie and I will go first," Mrs. Donaldson said to Meg. "I will
just speak to the man, and when Effie comes to you, get out and carry
Donald into the hospital."
"You will ask them to let me in, won't you?" Elsie asked, earnestly.
"I will ask, but I don't know whether they will," Mrs. Donaldson
replied, kindly. "Follow me, Effie."
Mrs. Donaldson went quickly down a narrow covered way, which Elsie,
supposed led to the hospital. She had no idea what sort of a place it
was, and everything here was bewilderingly new and strange to her. Meg
had told her that there was a great bare room, where people waited their
turn. Into such a room they seemed to have passed. There were several
people running about, the friends, Elsie supposed, of those who were
ill. "They are just going to shut the doors. Look how every one is
running!" Mrs. Donaldson hurriedly exclaimed. "We shall be too late.
Come, Effie."
She took Elsie's hand, and ran hastily across the great room. In a
moment, before Elsie knew what was being done, a gentleman had seized
her other hand, dragged her across a short space among a heap of people,
thrust her into a carriage just as a whistle sounded, the door was
banged to, and the train--for Elsie knew directly that she was in
one--began to move off. She flew to the door directly they released
their hold of her, but immediately two strong arms forced her back and a
soft gloved hand was held over her mouth.
"That was a near shave," the gentleman said when they had passed out of
the station.
"And would have been worse than useless if I had not engaged a carriage
to ourselves," Mrs. Donaldson replied, setting herself back comfortably.
"Now, my dear, you may scream or knock at the door as much as you like,"
she said smilingly; "not a soul will hear you. To-night you will be in
London!"